A Good Kid
by Cryptix
Summary: How The Shadow found Harry that night on the bridge. Based on the pulps, prelude to Gibson's The Living Shadow.


_I was trying to re-read Living Shadow and got plot bunny'd. . Characterization based on the Shadow pulp novels._

* * *

You've seen him before.

At some point, you have seen everyone who lives in New York City, and you have filed the anonymous faces away in your memory. His stands out, though. Not because it is handsome - though it is - but because of the impressions you filed away with it.

His path crossed yours half a year ago, while you staked out the flower shop "Hawk" Mancini operated out of. You were a tough at the time, working under Hawk's rival, "The Writer" Clayborn. It was starting to rain. He ducked under the same awning and you bummed a cigarette, and the two of you had a brief conversation about nothing. He had an appointment he had to keep. The rain eased, just a little, and he pressed on his way. You watched him walk away before returning your focus to the floral.

You pride yourself that you are a good judge of character. There was a tiredness in his smile and caution in his position, but kindness in his eyes and determination in his shoulders. Some instinct told you that he would be called 'a good kid.' Reliable, kind, loyal, not naive or ignorant. You could have used a contact like that in the war. The world doesn't have enough men like that.

'A good kid,' you remember when you pass him on the bridge, when your sharp eye catches him slipping away from the rail and behind the cover of a post, and your heart sinks. He's still hiding when the hack rounds the corner.

"Let me off here," you tell the cabbie.

Your driver starts to warn you about the neighborhood. It's not the place for someone dressed like you. You repeat it, an order this time, backed with a burning glare in the rearview. Moments later you're treading pavement.

It's dark out, moonless, but clear. You unfurl the cloak from over your arm and don your wide-brimmed hat and melt into the friendly shadows between you and the bridge.

Sure enough, he's there. He leans against the rail and looks down over the water below like he doesn't really see it. The determined set is gone from his shoulders. There is only defeat, and the tension of a decision not yet made.

You have nowhere to be. You stand and you watch and you wait, and you calculate how quickly you could reach him, and you sidle in as close as you dare and watch and wait some more.

Last time you saw him, he was clean-shaven. Now he is scruffy. He is dressed well, though, in a light overcoat tailored to his well-built frame. Sometimes he reaches toward its inner pocket. Sometimes he hesitates. Sometimes he draws out a piece of paper folded like a letter, or a glossy photograph with a crease down the middle, and he looks at them for awhile instead of the water below.

Cars pass. Each time he ducks out of sight again. When the rumble of engines fades around the corner, he slips out and to the rail again. The headlights do not disturb you.

You stand. You watch. You wait.

You have held longer vigils for less.

The bare edge of dawn tints the night sky before he breaks. The tension runs out of his spine and his shoulders sag. He draws the letter and the photograph out of his coat one last time, tears them in half and throws them over the side. The wind catches one scrap and sends it back toward the rail. His back is turned to walk away. You reach out and catch the scrap.

It is a photograph of a dark-haired young woman, laughing and carefree against a suburban backdrop. She is not beautiful but there is a sense that she would be if she were in motion, not frozen in black and white. An arm is around her shoulders. The body it was attached to has been torn away. You don't need to see the other half to divine who it belongs to.

You crumple the scrap and let it fall to join the others in the water. He is almost off the bridge. You sweep along after him.

For blocks you follow, until the traffic begins to pick up and the sky to lighten in earnest and your costume becomes conspicuous. He enters into a run-down cafe. You doff the hat and drape the cloak over your arm and hail an early cab. There is work to be done.

But you will be back tomorrow. Something tells you, so will he.

Your mark from San Francisco checks into the Metrolite that morning. Securing the next room over is easy - you can be very persuasive, even over the phone. The line 'disconnects' before they can ask to clarify the mutter you give in place of a name.

You spend the day in and out of shops, filling a valise with essentials. Wallet, comb and brushes, toiletries. A shaving kit - on second thought, safety razors. Soft pajamas. Neckties.

Evening draws in and brings a fog with it. You dine at Lamont's club and overhear a conversation that almost makes you smile. Convenient. The valise is delivered to the Metrolite - you, meanwhile, have a lead on an empty limousine you can 'borrow'. The long black car slices through the fog almost in silence. Mister Van Dyke is particular about his engines.

You almost hope you'll be wrong. You hope if you're right, you're not too late.

At first the bridge looks empty, fog rolling aside slowly as the limousine coasts without lights. Then he emerges, a dark shape forming from the mists that obscure the same hiding spot as before. He doesn't lean against the rail tonight. He puts his hands on it. The lines of his shoulders are rigid. You whisper to Van Dyke's driver to wait and you slip out. Your cloak swirls with the fog as you move toward him.

With a sudden mad energy, he swings over the edge of the rails. You sacrifice stealth for speed and cover the last yard between you with a leap, arm outstretched. For a heartbeat, he is suspended in air. For a heartbeat, you have failed. The fog reaches out to swallow him whole.

Gloved fingers find a purchase. The tableau breaks and your heart starts beating again. You grip his shoulder hard and sweep him back onto solid ground. The struggle that follows is expected. There is no conviction behind it, only confusion and instinct, and then fear as he beholds your cloaked aspect. Rising tall and black as death from the mist, you cut a terrifying figure.

He doesn't fight anymore as you lead him to the limousine. Fear is his master. That will not do, no more than sadness.

"What is your name?" You hiss the words, make them a command.

"Harry Vincent," he answers.

Harry Vincent. A good kid.

You've decided that the world needs Harry Vincent in it - and you will do whatever it takes to keep him there.

* * *

 _I have no idea why I wrote this in second person._


End file.
